my ghost, where'd you go?
by midnighhts
Summary: He doesn't tell Steve. He shakes his hand, sure, and calls him out on his lack of music knowledge, but he doesn't point out the shadow standing behind the tree. Sweet smile, dark hair, broad shoulders. — FICTOBER DAY 11 PROMPT: GHOST — sam/steve, ptsd ghosts, reupload from ao3


Everyone has a ghost. It isn't much of a _matter of fact_ thing, or a conspiratorial thing - it's just a statement. There are ugly ghosts, pretty ghosts, ghosts that sit at the bottom of glasses filled with strong liquids, ghosts that rattle and shake a house's walls, ghosts that don't show up (not anymore, but they did), ghosts that haven't shown up in a long time, ghosts with mottled skin, sad and darkened eyes, burning memories.

Sam has his ghosts. Everyone does. His ghost smiles at him, always half-turned away. His ghost never turns to look at him, but Sam's seen his profile for so long that he doesn't hesitate when he would snark, "Stop smiling, idiot."

His ghost wears his uniform like a blazing reminder - burning memories now imprinted to the inside of his eyelids, the sharpness of his suit like a giant _Fuck You_ , quick but lasting impressions against his forearm - gripping, gripping tight, _don't fall_. He'll see him in the corner of the room, or standing in the doorway before disappearing, or passing him by, sitting on a park bench he passes.

He'd offer his ghost a drink of his water, but with a cruel sense of humour, he doesn't think his ghost needs it right now.

People in the VA have ghosts. Of course they do. Many have one ghost, a pair of eyes they see as they go to sleep - the others have many, faces and bodies that they can only make out if they squint. Some ghosts are wounded, torn to shreds - some ghosts are like his, pristine uniforms, mocking smiles. No one likes to talk about their ghost there, but it's in their eyes.

Sam, in his own twisted way, can see them - the same way he sees his ghost, or the way he pretends not to. He's a counsellor, of sorts. He hears, he sees, he raises a water bottle to the dark mass hanging off their arms.

So in the same way, he sees Steve's ghost - but only barely. He sees a smile, pulling high at the edges. (All these damn ghosts are always _fucking_ smiling.) He sees dark hair, an old army cap. The ghost is fairly tall, but Sam's sure he can take whoever it is in a fight - easily.

He doesn't tell Steve. He shakes his hand, sure, and calls him out on his lack of music knowledge, but he doesn't point out the shadow standing behind the tree. Sweet smile, dark hair, broad shoulders.

"Marvin Gaye," he says, and his own ghost chuckles. "Trouble Man."

Steve smiles. He smiles like his ghost.

The dark feeling in Sam's stomach was from the run.

It is.

A car pulls up, and, of course, a man like Steve Rogers knows a beautiful lady. Sam stares - of course he does. He stares at the car first (because _damn_ ), but then his eyes meet the driver's, and he tries to quirk a charming smirk - then he sees the ink black mass that sits in her back seat.

"Hey," he says, lamely.

The look in her eyes is knowing, and, _Oh, God, I hope she can't see him_.

He goes home after that, and leaves a scotch on the table for his ghost.

Later he'll drink that, too.

* * *

He sits next to Steve, dirty sneakers pressing against Steve's boots. He doesn't offer Steve his hand or anything, but he's close. There's space for three on the couch: Sam, Steve, and Steve's ghost. His own ghosts sits on the coffee table, knees knocking against Steve's.

"I just-" Steve starts, sounding smaller than he has before. There's something human in the Almighty Captain America. "There are so many who will die if we fail."

Sam knocks his shoe against Steve's. "You know," Sam says, but his throat is stuck with the tension, "sometimes we can't save everyone."

Steve remains silent. His eyes are glued to the floor, hands in loose fists at his sides, body coiled and tensed, almost snapping where he sat.

Sam takes a deep breath. "But we save who we can, and, in the end, that's what matters."

"What if-"

"I was part of pararescue." Sam leans back. If he's going to poke at his ghost like a doctor at an open wound, he's going to need to be comfortable. "We had to get this done, or our base would be found. It was me and _Riley_."

His ghost finally turns his head, smiling. His whole look is straight from their group photo just as their tour started. God, they were much younger then.

"Standard op, really. Done it a million times before." Riley's smile doesn't fade, but he manages to mimic the words. "And then. . ."

Steve knocks his boot against Sam's shoe.

"Then an RPG knocks Riley's dumb ass out of the sky." Sam flexes his fingers. "Nothing I could do. It's like I was up there just to watch."

He's told this story before - many times, really. When he got back, the VA became his second home. He talked to countless people about his ghosts, their ghosts, the way they handled loss and grief. Now, it just seems. . . heavier.

Riley smiles at him, eyes shining like a twenty-something year old on the top of the world. Pride is the look painted on his face. _Good job, Wilson_ , he would've said, teasing and adoration mixed together.

Sam lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding. He sits up straight, squaring his shoulders. "But we did it."

He turns to look at Steve. Steve doesn't look away when their eyes meet.

Steve kisses him there. It's chaste but open-mouthed, and he sounds like he's nearly sobbing with his broken breathing.

Sam doesn't look at their ghosts; he just gives and gives.

* * *

Sam has his hands on Steve's chest.

 _Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky._

"He's going to be there, you know," Sam says. He doesn't want to, but he does.

Steve looks distant. "I know."

He wants to pull Steve out of his head, centre him back to whatever Earth logic can make him see straight again. It's harder now that Fury and Natasha both keep him up there, framed up on their wall, the famous Captain America saving the day once more. He's Steve, a man with a ghost who used to cling to his shadow, a ghost who stood on top of a bridge with a new arm, a ghost with dark hair and broad shoulders.

"Look," Sam tries again, "whoever he used to be, the guy he is now, I don't think he's the kind you save."

Steve's eyes clear for once, his blues focusing on Sam's face like it was the first time he realised he was there.

Sam presses his hands against Steve gently. It doesn't push him back, but it does pull his attention to their point of contact. "He's the kind you stop."

Somewhere in his peripheral, he sees Riley snicker. Cruel humour, indeed.

Steve's eyes focus just for a bit, but grows distant again. "I don't know if I can do that." There's something ancient in his tone, a battered Ares getting ready for another war, a broken Apollo begging for forgiveness.

Sam tries again, but Steve is resolute.

"Gear up," Steve says, low like a rumble. "It's time."

When he walks away, his shadow walks next to him.

* * *

"On your left."

Sam jerks awake. The hospital room is still as bleak as ever. The beeping incessant but it fills the room with white noise. It's also really annoying, so there's Marvin Gaye to white noise the white noise, and that makes the sickly sanitised room feel warmer.

Sam turns his head.

He smiles.


End file.
